


someone who'll get it

by 4beit



Category: Birds of Prey (And the Fantabulous Emancipation of One Harley Quinn) (2020)
Genre: F/F, Hurt/Comfort, TW: Blood
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-13
Updated: 2020-04-13
Packaged: 2021-02-22 22:22:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,874
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23634631
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/4beit/pseuds/4beit
Summary: “she doesn’t lose fights.” you point out, exhaling “not like that.”“yeah well,” harley says “if it was the anniversary of when my family got murdered, i’d probably go get drunk and pick a fight with someone too.”you just blink, all the pieces coming together.
Relationships: Helena Bertinelli/Dinah Lance
Comments: 23
Kudos: 175





	someone who'll get it

the summer has been long, unyielding in its heat to the point where even the criminals have taken a break from wreaking havoc to remain the sanctuary of the air conditioning. if you’re being honest, you don’t mind the lull. there’s nothing enjoyable about fighting crime when taking one step outside, even in the night-time, already has you sweating. so instead, you’re camped out in front of a fan watching crappy late-night television. correction, you’re camped out between two fans – one jammed in the window and the other on the floor directly in front of you. it’s not that you couldn’t have a place with air conditioning if you wanted to, it’s that you’re just –

there’s a knock on you apartment door and you frown. there’s a short list of people who know where you live and you can rule out harley immediately because she wouldn’t knock. she’d either pick the lock or have cass pick the lock in the name of education, or whatever. renee always messages before she turns up, a habit that in comparison to harley, you have come to appreciate. there’s the delivery guy from the chinese place and then, 

and then another round of more furious knocking and a pained 

“answer your door, dinah.” 

you frown, helena is an unexpected guest. not unwelcomed, just unexpected. 

“okay, okay.” you say, loud enough to hopefully be heard as you mute the television and walk over to the door. if you’re being honest with yourself, you have no idea what to expect. helena isn’t exactly the drop by unannounced type. you’re still trying to work out what type she is, and the romantic, or maybe the dumbass, in you keeps pointing out that helena is your type. although no matter how much flirting you seem to do, helena either doesn’t notice, or doesn’t care. you’re inclined to suspect the former if only because it gives you hope. 

when you finally get to the door, you’re pulling back the deadbolt – as if it makes your place any more harley-proof – and wondering just how you’re going to find on the other side of the door, 

when you find out. 

the short answer is blood. 

the long answer is helena’s blood. helena’s blood on helena, and on your door and along the walls towards the stairs. 

“shit.” you curse, taking in how pale she looks with one arm propping her against the doorframe and the other clutching at her stomach “what the hell happened?” you ask, all but dragging her inside. 

“got in a fight.” helena slurs making a clumsy attempt at closing your front door with a blood smeared hand. 

watching the way she sways on her feet, you step forward and wrap one arm around her waist. from this proximity you learn several things at once, 

the foremost of which prompts the question 

“are you drunk?” to be directed at helena. 

helena shakes her head. this is despite the fact that she reeks of booze and has that glazed-over look in her eye that definitely isn’t from the blood loss “not drunk.” she reaffirms. 

“sure.” you tell her “you’re definitely not drunk.” you say, depositing her into a chair in the kitchen. 

at least in here helena will bleed on your tile flooring and not into the carpet. 

“so, what happened?” you ask “who’d you get in a fight with?” 

“s’me guy.” helena says, leaning forward and slumping onto the table. 

for half a second you think she’s lost consciousness, or worse – stopped breathing and it takes a moment of your fingers against the hollow of her wrist to find a pulse. it takes a second after that for helena’s hand to grab yours “you’re warm.” she says. 

“yeah,” you say “yeah, i am.” and keenly aware that this much blood requires some form of medical training beyond your skills, 

you decide to call harley. 

it rings once. twice. three times and then it’s cass who answers with a warm 

_“hey dinah. what’s up?”_

in the background you hear the heavy panting of bruce, pop music that makes you cringe and the distinct sound of a knife burying itself in drywall “tell harley she needs to get over here.” you say, keenly aware that you have no time for pleasantries, not even with cass “and bring some medical shit.” 

“don’t need harley.” helena says, speaking into the table. 

you ignore her for the moment and hear _“sure thing.”_ from cass, before there’s half a second pause before a slightly more distant _“harley, it’s dinah. she says we need to get over to hers and to bring some medical shit.”_

“not you.” you say when cass is done speaking “sorry kid.” 

_“that’s not fair.”_ cass complains _“why can’t i-”_ but her question is cut off as harley’s voice comes through. 

_“you slice your arm open fighting with the can opener again?”_ harley asks with the same amused cheerfulness she always greets you with. and maybe in a different time you would find the reference annoying, or maybe even funny, but right now with the amount of blood seeping down helena’s leg 

“it’s not me.” you say “it’s helena. she’s bleeding all over my kitchen.” 

helena raises her head and studies you with a drifting gaze “you look worried.” she says “is this bad?” she looks down at herself “it must be bad.” she decides before you have a chance to reply. 

“just get over here harley,” you growl “fast.” 

and then you’re hanging up because you’re not sure helena is doing a good enough job of stopping the bleeding with whatever strength she’s got left. sacrificing your favourite pair of pyjama pants, you kneel down next to helena “stop fucking moving.” you tell her “and let me look at your stomach.” 

obediently helena stills and lets her arms drop to her side. it takes a few seconds to studying to see sickeningly large clot of blood protruding from what looks like a stab wound of some variety. you watch as it continues to ooze blood into her sopping shirt and along her arm. you force a steadying breath and look up at helena “do you remember what happened?” you ask. 

helena nods “got in a fight.” she says “don’t think i won though.” 

“no,” you agree “i don’t think you did.” 

“i saw,” helena continues “i saw i was bleeding a lot.” she says “came here. you’re closer. sorry.” 

“don’t be stupid.” you say “don’t apologise.” 

shaking her head, helena says “i’m bleeding all over you.” and you watch the way her gaze takes in your blood-soaked knees, the blood smeared across your hands. 

“it’s fine.” you tell her “promise.” you add as you stand and grab a towel you had left drying across the back of another chair “we’re going to use this to help stop the bleeding.” you say with confidence you definitely don’t feel. 

helena nods “good idea.” she says. 

you fold the towel quickly and kneel down once again. bringing the towel to helena’s stomach and pressing it there directly over the oozing wound, you say “do you remember what they hit you with?” 

long seconds pass as it seems like helena considers before answering with “knife, i think? big one.” 

not exactly helpful, but you can’t fault her for not remembering – especially in this state. 

this close to helena, you hear her breathing. it’s faster than you think it should be and where you expected gritted teeth to ward off the pain, you hear none “does it hurt?” you ask. 

helena shakes her head “not really.” she says and then “shouldn’t have done that.” she continues “feel dizzy.” 

“don’t do that then.” 

“smart.” helena says and then after a few seconds “i lied.” she admits “before.” 

“oh?” you say, looking at helena’s face and surprised when you’re not sure what emotions you catch flickering in her eyes. 

“i am drunk.” she says, as if you had no idea. 

“you don’t say.” 

“i didn’t think it would be so easy.” helena says, and her gaze slides away from yours again. 

“easy for what?” you ask as helena’s free hand, the one not propping herself up against the table, traces along the line of your forearm. 

“to get drunk.” helena says. 

you can’t help but laugh, but it’s strained “okay,” you say “what did you drink?” 

“uhm,” helena starts, frowning “what do you drink?” she asks. 

“whiskey.” 

“that one.” helena says “i, i tried whatever renee drinks. but it tasted like battery acid.” she says “whiskey is nicer.” 

“i’ll make sure to tell her that.” you reply “so how much whiskey did you drink?” 

“too much, i think, but it’s the date. today. yesterday maybe by now. i couldn’t stop.” helena replies, and her head droops “i feel funny.” she says and her eyes flutter shut. 

fuck. you don’t have time to piece together what helena means about the date, not when she barely looks conscious. 

no way is she dying in your kitchen. 

“hey,” you say sharply, using your free hand to snap, trying to get her attention “hey, helena look at me.” you say, and if there were anyone else around you might be worried about how much panic is in your voice. but there’s no one around to judge you, so “look at me helena.” you repeat, your voice a desperate growl. 

it takes long seconds before she does “it’s late.” helena says “’m tired.” 

“me too.” you tell her “but you can’t sleep. harley’s coming to check you out.” 

helena frowns, but before she can formulate a response, you hear the sound of your door being pushed open and “well shit crossbow,” coming from harley. 

“about fucking time.” you say, relieved to see harley carrying what looks like a tacklebox “she’s lost a lot of blood.” 

“definitely.” harley agrees “doesn’t do much for your kitchen though.” she says “maybe if it were a different colour though.” she continues, as if you called her over for redecorating advice. 

“harley,” you growl “come on.” 

“fine, fine.” harley says setting her tacklebox down by your microwave “we need to get her onto the table.” she says nodding at helena. 

“harley,” helena says, finally fixing her gaze past you “i got stabbed.” she says. 

“is she drunk?” harley asks, looking to you with mild surprise in her eyes. 

“very.” you say “whiskey.” and then “she’s not going to stay on the table.” 

“then let’s get her on the floor.” harley says. 

“okay,” you agree, slipping an arm underneath helena’s shoulder and using your other hand to hold the towel to her stomach “come on,” you tell her “we’re going to get on the floor so harley can stitch you back up.” 

helena doesn’t reply, instead leaning heavily into you as in one smooth motion you move her onto the floor “it’s cold down here.” she says after a beat, eyes flickering open and looking from you, to harley “hey harley.” 

“hi.” harley says, still smiling broadly and dropping to her knees next to you “you need to stay still.” she says “so all your insides, stay inside.” 

“harley,” you hiss, “really?” 

“it’s true,” harley says “and sometimes being blunt is the best approach.” she says “if you stay by helena’s head, you can hold her down if she gets too squirmy.” 

you do as told, kneeling at helena’s head and bringing your hands to her shoulder “you have to stay still.” you say, looking down at her. 

“okay.” helena says, nodding once and you notice that she looks terrible, pale and too close to death for comfort.

you watch as harley pulls back the towel carefully. you study her face for any sign of surprise or shock or any indication that this is life threatening. yet you see nothing. 

you’re not sure that makes you feel better or worse. 

harley is emotive to the max, that much you know. she either states what she’s feeling or you see it on her face – this though, this might be one of the few times you’re looking at doctor harleen quinzell. there’s a calmness to her features, a fixated look in her eyes as she studies helena’s wound. without looking, you watch as harley reaches into her now open tacklebox and pulls out what looks like a bottle of water. 

“i’m going to try and clean some of the blood away.” harley says “i need to see the bottom of the wound.” 

“okay.” you nod.

“is it gonna hurt?” helena asks. 

“this part won’t.” harley says “it’ll just feel cold.” 

minutes pass as harley carefully cleans away blood. helena doesn’t flinch, barely blinks as harley soaks gauze in the sterile solution before going after the blood on helena’s stomach. you watch as she works not to disturb the clot sticking out of the wound and slowly a pile of blood-soaked gauze piles up by helena’s knee. harley seems utterly unphased by whatever she’s finding, but whether that’s a poker face or a nonplussed attitude, you’re not sure. you also realise, as harley is using scissors she ripped from a little packet to cut away the larger portions of the clot, that this might be the longest you’ve heard her go without saying anything. 

it’s unnerving. 

“okay.” harley says finally, pulling out a small flashlight looking thing from her tacklebox “make sure you stay really still for this helena.” she says. 

you brace yourself against helena’s shoulders and watch as carefully, harley shines the light over and into the wound. at this, you have to avert your gaze. you can’t be looking into peoples insides like that, not without vomit rising in the back of your throat “tell me when you’re done with that.” you say, looking out the kitchen window instead. 

“sure.” harley says “this doesn’t look that bad.” she says “no major organs hit. just a lot of blood loss.” 

still with your gaze affixed out the window, helena replies “it’s on dinah’s floor.” 

“yeah,” harley laughs “and out in the hallway.” there’s a pause and then “helena, what blood type are you?” 

there’s a long pause and then “ab-positive.” 

harley brightens “oh good.” 

“good?” you ask at the same time as helena. 

harley nods “universal receiver.” she says “her blood type. it means getting her some blood should be easy.”

“what, are you going to rob a blood bank?” you ask, looking back at harley with an eyebrow raised. 

“i mean i was going to ask renee to do it, while we stitch helena up.” 

“can’t she just have some of mine?” you ask before you have time to think about what you’re saying. 

harley raises an eyebrow and considers “sure.” she says “that’s pretty old school, person to person transfusion, but it should work. i don’t think she’ll need much.” 

“let’s do that.” you say, and then “what do you mean, _we_ stitch helena back up?” 

harley just beams. 

great.

* * *

half an hour later helena is laid out in your bed and harley is up to her elbows in soap suds. you’re standing in the middle of the kitchen looking at the bloody mess that it has become “hey harley,” you say, watching as she looks over her shoulder at you “thanks.” you tell her. 

harley shrugs “no problem. that was nothing.” 

you shake your head “no, that was something.” you tell her. 

“it’s all what they teach you in medical school.” harley says “i used to patch up mister j all the time.” 

“well,” you sigh “you’re really good at it.” you tell her. 

“i know.” harley smiles “she’s gonna be fine you know.” she adds. 

you look away “yeah, i figured. you didn’t seem that worried.” 

“lots of practice.” harley says “but really, she just needs to rest, let the wound heal and not get stabbed next time.” 

“she doesn’t lose fights.” you point out, exhaling “not like that.” 

“yeah well,” harley says “if it was the anniversary of when my family got murdered, i’d probably got get drunk and pick a fight with someone too.” 

you just blink, all the pieces coming together. 

“fuck.” you say “how’d you figure that out?” 

“psychiatrist.” harley says “PhD.” she adds, hands free from blood. 

you can’t argue with that. 

“now,” harley says, assessing your kitchen “i wasn’t kidding about different colour livening up the place.” she says “blood red isn’t really your style.” 

“thanks.” you tell her “but i’ll pass for now.” 

harley shrugs “cass is a mean interior decorator.” she says, and for some reason you’re not surprised – but you also question harley’s idea of appropriate interior decoration “i’ll come back tomorrow with some antibiotics.” she says. 

“thanks harley.” you say, meaning it more than you ever have “and tell cass i’m sorry. “

“she’ll understand.” harley shrugs, packing her tacklebox back up “plus it’s a school night.” she adds, and the concept of harley enforcing a curfew is enough to make you smile as harley adds “if helena starts getting a fever, or doesn’t wake up or pulls her stiches out, call me.” 

“you don’t think she needs more blood?” you ask, looking down at the small bruise forming where your blood was drawn from. 

“nope,” harley says popping the last syllable “like i said, she should be fine.” 

“you’re not going to stay and help me clean this up?” you ask, but all you get is harley rolling her eyes in your direction. 

“not a chance.” she says “i’ve got to see a bank about some money.” 

“at one in the morning?” 

harley just smirks and disappears out the door before calling out “i’d get out here cleaned up unless you want the cops called in the morning.” 

you know she’s right. 

at the same time, you’re covered in blood and your kitchen is covered in blood and part of you is itching to make sure that helena is still breathing because despite what harley has said, 

there was so much blood. 

you’ll clean the hallway you tell yourself, but first – 

first you open the door to your bedroom as quietly, as slowly as you can. you watch, just long enough to see the rise and fall of helena’s chest under the covers, before feeling inordinately creepy and closing the door. you move into the kitchen next, stepping around the congealing, drying blood on the floor and going to the sink. you turn the water as hot as you can handle it and start scrubbing your fingers, the creases of your palms, your wrists, all the way up to your elbows. you scrub until the soap suds aren’t pink, and then you keep scrubbing. 

how did you not piece it together. 

helena had told you. 

_the date,_

even slurred you understood what she was saying. yet somehow you were unable to connect the dots. 

fuck. 

you turn the tap off. 

you dry your hands and arms with the corner of the bloodstained towel. 

you get some kitchen spray, paper towels and head into the hallway.

* * *

the blood, while congealed, comes off the walls easily enough. the stench of bleach is an improvement over the normal odour of the hall and you’re working at the blood on the railing when a door opens. 

“you’re up late, dinah.” a voice says and you look up to see your elderly neighbour standing in the doorway. ms. miller is a legend, a fixture of the neighbourhood that kids adore, adults respect and city officials fear. with an encyclopaedic knowledge and incomparable baking skills, you and many other kids in the neighbourhood practically grew up in her kitchen. 

“sorry, ms. miller.” you apologise “did i wake you?” 

ms. miller peers at you through her thick framed glasses “not at all.” she says “you get in a fight?” she asks, eyeing the collection of bloodstained paper towels at your feet. 

“not me. “ you say “my friend.” 

“your lady friend?” ms. miller asks “the one with the eyes?” 

you snort “the eyes, ms. miller? come on.” 

“all the eyeshadow.” is what you get in response “i don’t know what you kids call it these days, smoky eye?” 

you laugh again, the idea of helena sitting, perched in front of a computer following along with a make-up tutorial is as foreign as it is amusing “yeah,” you say “that’s the one.” 

ms. miller nods “she’s good for you.” 

you blinks “what?” 

“the one with the eyes.” ms. miller says, glancing behind her at the doberman ralph, peering at you “she’s good for you.” 

“oh, ms. miller,” you start “she’s not, we’re not.” you start to try and explain, but get waved off. 

“i’ve seen the way you look at her.” 

you’re about to ask when but think better of it. ms. miller is older than the building itself, probably older than the entire city and most kids in this neighbourhood learn early not to ask too many questions because you’ll never get a straight answer. 

“i didn’t think it was that obvious.” you say instead, leaning against the now blood free railing. 

“oh dinah,” ms. miller says “the aliens in space could see how you look at her.” 

“yeah, well,” you say “she doesn’t.” 

“i wouldn’t be so sure.” ms. miller responds cryptically before putting a hand on ralph’s collar and stepping back into her apartment.

“night ms. miller.” you say just as the door shuts. 

“good night dinah.” is the muffled response.

* * *

the first thing you realise is that you must have fallen asleep. 

the second thing you realise is that there’s movement in your apartment. 

the third thing you realise is that it must be helena. 

you open an eye and take a moment to register your protesting neck and back sore from only a few hours sleep on the sofa before sitting up and sure enough 

“hey,” you say, voice thick with sleep “i was gonna clean that you know.” you say, speaking to helena’s back. 

you watch her still, frame frozen on her hands and knees with a bucket of soapy water next to her “it’s my blood.” she says by way of response. 

she sounds rough. 

you stand, walking over to the kitchen “you got stabbed.” you remind her “harley says you need to rest.” 

studying helena from this vantage you see deep circle under her eyes and her face is still an uncomfortable pallor “i can do this.” she says, dipping a hand back into the bucket and retrieving sponge. 

you shake you head, kneeling down and putting a hand lightly around her wrist “you don’t have to.” you tell her “that’s what i’m saying.” 

helena looks away, shoulders tense and hands curled into loose fists “it’s my blood.” she repeats, and you notice that she doesn’t take her hand out of your grasp. 

she could, if she wanted, you’re not holding tight. yet she lingers, almost pressing her wrist into the contact. 

“i’ll clean it up.” you say gently “you don’t have to do it.” you continue “you should be resting.” 

helena shakes her head “dinah,” she starts “dinah, i need to do this.” she says, voice thin. 

“why?” you ask. 

no response. you watch her keep scrubbing, keep cleaning and you decide

“fine, can i help you at least?” 

helena nods. 

and that’s how the morning goes. you help helena scrub your kitchen floor, and your kitchen table, and your kitchen counters. you take the bucket from her when she goes to lift it and you catch the wince that flickers across her face. you tip the contents down the drain, watching the water swirl and spin and disappear. you feel helena lingering, watching silently until

“i should go.” she says. 

you look over at her “you were stabbed.” you say, apparently lost for a better use of language. 

“i’ve been stabbed before.” she points out.

“you,” you force an exhalation and take a breath “if you wanted to stay, you could.” you start and it’s when helena looks away from you again, that you understand “you have nothing to be ashamed of.” you tell her. 

she looks over at you “why would i be-” she starts, stops “i showed up at your door bleeding and drunk.” she says “you have every right to be pissed at me.” 

“i’m not mad.” you tell her, but you can see she doesn’t believe you. it’s clear in the way she shakes her head, in the way helena folds her arms across her chest “helena,” you say “i’m glad you came here. i would rather have you bleeding all over my kitchen then you,” you splutter for a moment “then you dead in some alley.” 

“i wouldn’t have died.” 

“you don’t know that.” you fire back “you, there was so much fucking blood helena. you were barely with it.” 

“i didn’t mean to scare you.”

“that’s not the point.” you sigh, exasperated, wound up, trying to find a way to explain the bubbling in your stomach, the adrenaline rushing through your veins. 

“i don’t understand.” helena says, finally looking over at you. 

“i-” you start, stop “look.” you say “harley figured out why you went out and got drunk yesterday. and i’m just saying that you don’t have to go through all this alone.” you keep going, unable to stop yourself now “even if you want to go get drunk, you don’t have to it alone. i could make sure you pick fights you would win.” you tell her “i could make sure you don’t get stabbed.” you exhale, not sure if you’ve come close to making your point “i’m just saying helena, you don’t have to be alone anymore.” 

for long, agonising seconds, helena is silent. 

it’s longer seconds still before she looks at you, but when she does – when she does helena’s eyes are bright with tears as she begins to speak “i’m not good at all this feelings stuff.” she says “but i, last night, when i was drunk and bleeding all i could think about was finding you. i just kept thinking about how you would help me. and like, renee would do the same, harely too if i turned up, but all i could think about was coming to you. all i could think about was wanting to be here. so i came here.” 

“i’m glad you came.” you tell her, “i-i’m glad you came here.” 

“can we sit down?” helena asks and you nod, pushing off the counter and slipping into stride next to helena. you walk steadily by her side, one hand ready in case she falters. 

she doesn’t. 

what happens instead is her hand tangles with yours “i know i’m not good at this.” she says, turning to face you “and i suck with words and feelings but,” your breath catches in your chest as helena’s eyes flit to your lips and then back up to your eyes “but i want to kiss you and it’s not just because you let me bleed all over your kitchen. it’s, it’s-” helena trails off, looking at you, looking away. 

you feel her start to pull back and you bring a hand to her hip. you rock onto your toes and kiss her. 

you kiss her gently, slowly and time seems to slow. 

the morning around you dulls and the universe seems to narrow only to helena kissing you back and her hand on your jaw and then there’s a pause. it’s half a second where your lips part and you’re both panting, both looking at each other with fire in your eyes before kissing again. 

and again. 

and again.

* * *

helena is laid out on the couch with her feet in your lap “i figured it out.” she says. 

“figured what out?” you ask, glancing over at her. 

there’s colour back in her cheeks and the tension is gone from her shoulders. she looks relaxed, with her head propped up by a pillow and the sheet from your bed covering her body. 

“why i wanted to come here last night. why i needed to come here.” she says, meeting your gaze steadily. 

you say nothing, giving her room to find her words, room to talk. you’ve learned since meeting helena, since falling for her, that she spends a lot of time in her head, a lot of time figuring out what she wants to say and how she wants to say it. you’ve realised that giving her space to just speak her mind lets her do just that. 

“you make everything in my head quiet.” helena says “when i’m with you i can just _be_.” she says “it sounds stupid saying out loud.” she says, adds the tips of her ears flushing as she looks away. 

“it’s not stupid.” you tell her “i know the feeling.” you say and it’s true – helena brings your life to a sort of balanced chaos; brings you to a sort of balanced chaos. 

maybe ms. miller is on to something, no surprise there really.

"oh." helena says, and after a beat she looks back in you direction "really?" 

"yeah." you nod "really. being around you, i can't describe it." you pause "you make me feel good." you settle for. 

"that's how you make me feel." helena says "and, and you make me feel safe." 

you're not sure there's a higher compliment.

**Author's Note:**

> many thanks to traceable for reading through this and giving encouragement.
> 
> on tumblr @ 4beit if you want to come talk birds of prey with me.


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